This blog was written by Global Gap Fellow Felix Soto.
A few days back, I picked up a book I’ve been meaning to read for a while, The Message by Ta-Nehisi Coates. My interest in the book was piqued by the stir it caused, and ever the contrarian, I decided to check it out. I went to a park at the edge of the harbor and sat on a bench to read. Instantly, I was captivated. Never had someone put to words what I so badly want to do. I want to “haunt” readers, make them think about my writing long after it has been returned to its shelf. This desire of mine has been somewhat to blame for my lack of posts, it is not that I do not wish to write, instead, I yearn to write so much that when the words do not come, or they are not at the quality I would like it physically pains me. Thus, it was easier to ignore writing than to be endlessly frustrated by my inability to capture what I see, think, or feel. The Message by Ta-Nehisi Coates has shaken me from my self-imposed stupor, and I hope the following description of my experience reading this powerful book can somewhat make up for my previous silence.
Earlier, I saw some press coverage surrounding the release of this book. This was part of the “stir” I previously referred to. One instance that stood out was when an interviewer told Coates that if one were to take away the name “Ta-Nehisi Coates” from the cover with all the awards and recognition it brings, then it wouldn’t be out of place in the backpack of an extremist. Coates gave a very articulate response, but I was still left wondering, “What did he write that would cause such a reaction?” The thought that one of my favorite authors being an extremist was frightening. I certainly think him radical in his ideas at times, that is in part why I love his works so much, but “extremist” conjures images of suicide bombers, Klansmen in hoods, and Nazis goose-stepping through the streets. Surely he is not like that, surely… Fed up with hearing accusations that I could neither agree with not dismiss until I had the source material itself, I timidly approached a shopkeeper to ask if they had any copies of The Message, she came back with a nice looking paperback book. I balked at the price before remembering it was in AUD before promptly buying it and going on my way.
As I sat with the book in my hands, I frequently found myself on the verge of tears, not because what I was reading was sad (at least some parts weren’t) but because I was so moved by his prose. Only my desire to keep reading kept the tears from blurring my vision. Every fiber of my body wanted to continue devouring his words. Occasionally, the wind would blow up from the harbor, catching the next page and turning it for me, as if the earth itself wanted me to keep on my journey. The second section’s motifs of finding “home” even when you have to create it, feeling disconnected from those you supposedly share a bond with, and the validity of “manufactured” histories resonated with me. Never since The Great Gatsby have I ever felt more connected to a book. A hunger overtook me. And yet, I stopped right before the fourth and most controversial section, and it sat on my nightstand for a few days. The prospect of continuing to read filled me with excitement and dread. Excitement because it is a wonderful book by a skilled author that I admire and wish to learn from. And dread because, well, I don’t know quite why. Maybe I was too cowardice to face the immense suffering that awaited me on the next page, a horror so deep that it is unimaginable because acknowledging its existence admits that humans who I believe have an infinite capacity for good also have an infinite capacity for evil. It is easier to be hopeful when not all the cards are on the table. Until the final card is revealed, you can hold the winning hand. Until I turned that page, I could maintain my deniability, keep a learned distance from those who it is simply more convenient to ignore.
Nevertheless, I felt Coates’ words haunt me. They lay echoing through my skull, offering no reprieve. I knew that picking up the book again would only cement my fate to be haunted and maybe that is what I wanted, to have a constant companion as I wander the streets of Sydney, or maybe I thought the secrets to haunting my own readers lie in the pages I felt compelled to turn. Whatever the reason, I picked up the book and began my pilgrimage to a small park in the middle of Balmain, the peninsula on which I resided in Sydney. My reading began similarly to the previous three sections, flipping through pages with an unmatched fervor, tamping down tears whenever they spring up, but I soon slowed to a more reverent pace with frequent breaks. Whereas before the only thing that matters was getting to the next to see what stories lie there, now I was compelled to linger on each word until it reveled some greater truth about the narrative unfolding beneath my fingers. During my breaks, I felt cowardly, ashamed that I was too weak to endure simply reading others’ pain while they lived it. I wanted to be stronger, less delicate, but gaining a tough skin was not the way forward, at least not for me. To become insensitive would make the outrageous atrocities feel normal, and that is something I never want to stand for, full stop. So I stayed tender, letting the tears fall when they saw fit. I saw what depravity we can reach with the justification of “safety” and was told what my tax dollars fund. There were moments in reading when I wanted to cry, to reflect, to scream, but one made me simply want to put down the book and walk away forever. Disappearing into the sea would be easier than acknowledging we did this. It was a story by a former soldier regarding a home invasion he carried out:
“I remember this one mission I was in: go in, take control, the whole procedure, We’re in the window doing what we’re supposed to do, looking out the window. And then one of my soldiers sort of calls up and says, ‘Hey, hey. Come quickly, I need your help’
And I go there, and the situation was a father, standing with his daughter in his own home, trying to take her to the bathroom. And my soldier was there with his gun cocked in the face of the father, and his daughter is standing there between his legs, petrified. When I got there, she had already peed in her pants. That was sort of one of those moments where I was like, “What the f*ck are we doing? Who is this for?'”
I must admit that a sob caught in my throat as I reread and copied this down. Perhaps because I almost lost my father at a similar age or maybe because my greatest hope is to become a father myself, whatever the reason, I feel an overwhelming compulsion quake in my bones. It screams at me to swim through oceans, scale mountains, sprint across deserts so that I might fall next to her and pull her to safety. Safety, the thing this is all allegedly in the name of. Whose safety do we value? It surely wasn’t hers.
Instead of the hateful language I had previously feared lied between the covers, I was met with solemn reflection and remorse. I can not help but think the extreme position in this scenario is hearing the story of a father with a gun to his head for simply trying to help his daughter to the bathroom and somehow thinking that promotes safety. It is a sad state of affairs when compassion and love are treated as an extremist position. After all this, I am left with a question:
Is this the world we created?